Swallowed by the Sun
by Sarah Elmira Royster Poe
Summary: AU: Moriarty was real. He just had a little help from a lovely pathologist. WARNINGS!: Mental Health Issues, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Cotard's Syndrome Other: Fairytale Elements, Lucid Dreaming. Beta'd by firefly.1212
1. Acersecomic

_**Notes:**_Beta'd by firefly.1212. The illustrations are not mine! Credit to the Twin's Project. Can be found: /projects/a-z-of-unusual-words/

**_Acersecomic_**

Acersecomic: a person whose hair has never been cut.

Earlier Greek:  
"κόμη", the hair of the head (which is where comic comes from in the ending),  
"κειρείν", to cut short  
prefix α-, not.

*It was usual for Roman and Greek youths to wear their hair long until they reached manhood.

* * *

_'She wakes up by the bright sunlight beams which creep through the heavy velvet curtains. The atmosphere is thick with the smell of books, dust and uncirculated air. Rolling heavily, she hugs the silk pillows, yawning and stretching her delicate arms. She doesn't push the golden cord that will announce to the servants she is awake; any disturbance is unwelcome this early in the morning. _

_The duvets are filled with peacock feathers. Soft and stifling; she pushes them away from her, and the hefty bedding almost topples from the bed. She hangs her feet from the edge of the high bed and with a little jump her naked feet contact the soft carpet. Ignoring her brocade slippers, she slowly strips out of her white nightgown. The gown is made of the finest Egyptian cotton, embroidered by the best tailors in the kingdom with flying birds and endearing forest animals, with blossomed flowers and tall trees. All these marvels were crafted with the thinnest golden thread and are hardly visible to the inattentive observer. _

_She lets this inimitable dress fall to the ground and walks towards the glass wall opposite the bed. Her footsteps do not disturb the smothering silence; the only sound the rustling sound of cloth as her hands tug the curtains, explorative fingers trying to navigate in the dark. When her fingertips touch the long string, she hauls it downward with all her might and the heavy curtains unwrap suddenly to blind her with the bright light.'_

Footsteps are approaching. Loud and hurried footsteps. She snaps the black notebook shut quickly and pretends to furiously scribble chemical formulas.

"What are you doing? I have some new arrivals for you. Need results in two hours. Rough estimations, I don't need details at the moment. We have to fill in the police report."

He hands her two thick folders and turns sharply to yell at a poor nurse. She sighs and heads for her office.

##

That night, she returns to her small, dimly lit apartment and collapses on her sofa. It is past midnight and she slumps on the couch, kicking her shoes off as exhaustion creeps in. She throws her bag on the floor and grabs the worn out little leather notebook and the yellow pencil. She finds the edge of the silk bookmark and tugs it, opening it at the right page. The sheets have acquired a yellowish shade and the edges are cut and folded. Scribbles in a horrible handwriting adorn the pages.

Her handwriting is usually neat, almost calligraphic when filling reports or solving formulas. But she finds that her letters deteriorate when her muse commands her to write – according to the prosaic words of her father. Much like anything really. When she is left alone, in the warmth and security of her own house – or mind if we want to be frank –, her world, the projection of herself, falls into ruins. She doesn't do it intentionally, no. Not really. It's not that she has created an elaborate mask or a deceitful façade, honestly. Who would have thought! But, her reactions, her own behaviour changes dramatically when she is forced to endure the company of an arrogant detective, a kind doctor and an angry boss.

Endure? Is that the right word? Maybe it is after all. All this fuss and pretense is nauseating. Everyone plays an act, and frankly, it becomes exhausting. Too consuming. She stares blankly at the quadrille paper trying to make out her own letters. She straightens up and starts reading the extract aloud. Her voice is raspy and low and her eyes snap out of focus a couple of times, too tired to decipher the written words. She starts again.

_"She wakes up by the bright sunlight beams which creep through the heavy velvet curtains. The atmosphere is heavy with the smell of books, dust and uncirculated –"_

It's awful. She tries again.

_"She wakes up by the bright sunlight beams which creep through the heavy velvet curtains."_

Really? That cliché? She crosses it with a big angry movement of her arm and the sharp pencil tears the paper. She closes her eyes and rubs her temple in circular soothing motions. Her head lolls back and rests on the soft pillows of the couch. Soon, her breathing becomes swallower and even, and her fingers let go of the writing material. The notebook falls to the floor with a loud thud and the pencil rolls across the tiles. Her fingers twitch.

##

"Why should I be a princess? Thank God you didn't write about my long golden hair! You were dangerously close! What is it with you writers? No inspiration at all? Ok, I think I get it. Parthenogenesis doesn't exist and such, but really? _"Peacock feathers and velvet curtains?" _Pffff.

If I have to go along with your ridiculous story I will choose who I am to be. Hmmm… Well, what about a mermaid? No? No, you're right. What was I thinking? A _limniad_? Yes. Much better. Mind you, no cute tails or haunting songs! I have sharp teeth and metal scales. Armour.

I have eaten entire crews and sunk ships. I have raised the waters to drawn the tanned bodies of lovelorn sailors and drunken pirates. I have calmed the ocean and let the moon admire his beauty to the silver mirror. And I have deep blue hair. Like the depths of the sea. And I have fashioned a crown from seaweeds and shells.

You don't say anything now, do you? Why don't you watch me be sovereign of this vast kingdom? The seabed is thirsty for fresh blood and the rocks want to sharpen their teeth on soft flesh and hollow bones. You see, I don't need borrowed words. I don't need a foreign hand to guide my way through this bottomless pit I call home.

We will meet again. Mark my words. We will meet again and I shall greet you as an equal. Someday. Watch out for the old man tied to the mast of his ship. I wonder… Whose language are you speaking? Won't you ever speak your own?"

##

Molly wakes up with a start, gasping and choking on her own spit. She jumps and tries to stand on shaky legs. She is shaking and she is covered in cold sweat. She hastily turns the switch on the wall on. The light of the sole lamp is strangely yellow, strangely bright. She runs to the bathroom, taking off the clothes that are plastered to her sweaty body. She opens the lavatory door and turns on the other light too, half expecting to be swallowed by the ground, which doesn't seem solid. It seems… that it's moving, that it's liquid, that it's…

She shakes her head and reaches for the sink. She splashes water on her face. She looks at her reflection at the mirror. Her eyes are small, too small, too dark. Her face is white, too pale. Her lips are red, bloody. She runs her tongue over her shiny crimson lips. She can taste salt. She smiles and sees two rows of pearly-white, razor-sharp teeth.

* * *

_**Notes:**_The plethora of staccato short sentences in this work is by design. I believe it conveys the sentiment of fragmentariness of mind that I want to portray.


	2. Biblioclasm

**Notes:**Beta'd by firefly.1212. The illustrations are not mine! Credit to the Twin's Project. Can be found: /projects/a-z-of-unusual-words/

**Biblioclasm**

Biblioclasm: the destruction, often ceremonial burning and mutilation of books

Ancient Greek:  
"βιβλίο", book  
"κλάομαι-κλώμαι" to cun in pieces, to rip apart, to break

* * *

"Come along, John!" Sherlock turns on his heels and his long coat swirls dramatically behind him. John hurries to follow him, almost running beside him, to match the detective's long strides. Molly doesn't look up from her chart, and she hears the muffled conversation echoing through the empty corridor.

"Where to? Sherlock, where to?"

She huffs. Slowly the voices cease, and an unearthly silence settles heavily on the air, weighing down, down, down. Well, not many chances of conversation with the dead. The dead speak the language of the flowers. That's what her grandmother always told her. She drops the chart on the tiled floor, just to hear the metal clang disturbing the stillness. She smiles. Who is mocking who now, huh?

##

"Molly! Molly, wait!" A hand touches her back. She turns surprised.

"Are you up for a coffee?" Molly wears her politest smile and stammers awkward words.

"Sally, I'm really sorry but I am extremely tired. It's been an exhausting day." She rubs her eyes.

"Oh… But you have to promise me that you are going to come to Angela's surprise birthday party next Friday, right?"

##

She finds shelter into her old red Volkswagen and rides around the London streets. She passes austere buildings and bleak people. Then she leaves London. She can see the grey asphalt street twisting like a snake around the flat, boring, dead green of English countryside. She turns on the radio. She turns off the radio. She smokes. She fumbles with her left hand on the empty seat besides her. Her right hand is resting lightly on the wheel.

She retrieves an old tape and slides it in the old tape deck. The tape screeches. She starts reciting the poem along the man's comforting voice. She opens the windows of the small car. She breathes the smell of rain and wet grass.

When the tape ends, she pushes the reply button. Each time her voice is steady and her hands shake. She keeps her gaze firmly ahead of the road. When she looks out of the side window again, she sees her own reflection staring back at her through the dirty glass. Look at that! Night fell! She turns the wheel. She balances the cigarette between her lips. The old car makes a full turn in the empty road. The tires protest and she can smell fire. She heads back.

##

She bangs the door behind her. The bills greet her on the doorstep. She takes off her coat and abandons it at the floor of her living room. She hastily opens all the windows and draws back the curtains. The flat now, is dark and cold. She ventures into her bedroom and kneels on the wooden floor. She extends her arm under the metallic bed and feels the rough carpet. Suddenly, her fingertips touch the sharp edge of a wooden box. She drags it form under the bed and rests it on her lap. It is scratched, old, Insignificant.

She opens the lid; the hatch is already broken, and removes the stack of papers and books that were stuffed carelessly inside. She sits there with her back on the cold wall, and the breeze chilling her bones. She traces the ink with the inside of her palm. She brings each paper to her nose and inhales the smell of old paper.

She leaps on her feet and she clutches the stack of papers to her breasts. She crosses the narrow corridor leading to the bathroom. She fills the bathtub with her written words. Her old, passionate scribbles. Her aged, fervent efforts of understanding. Failed efforts? No. She understands well now. She just doesn't like what she understood so long ago. Maybe she can't appreciate it. It doesn't matter either way.

She drops the lit match and watches the thin, spidery letters melt in the heat. The flames burn for a long time. After all, there is a lot to be burned. After the fire stops blazing, she sinks down to her knees and breathes again. She smiles. She feels so light, so carefree. She doesn't bother to clean the soft, weightless, white ashes and the black traces of smoke from the white porcelain tub. After all, who is going to notice?

##

She calls Sally and tells her that she will attend to Angela's party after all. In fact she would be delighted to come!

Angela. Pretty blonde hair, white skin, blue eyes. Has a boyfriend, a dog. Wears flower dresses and reads poetry. She buys her a silver pendant. Gold is too expensive and too warm. Silver is cold, faceless. It is a fitting present.

##

She looks at herself in the mirror, attempting to put on some make-up and fit into her tiny dress. She looks… fine. Strangely…common. She flashes her teeth in a mocking smile. They are not pearly anymore. Her lips are not crimson. She puts on her darkest red lipstick. That's better. She unzips her dress and lets it fall to the ground. She stands naked in the middle of the bathroom.

##

"Greg?"

"Yeah. What happened? What time is it?"

"Come to Molly's house, now."

"Sally? Molly's house? What happened?"

"Now! For the love of god! And… I am not sure."

"I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Five, Lestrade. You'll be here in five minutes. Hurry!"

"I – "

_"Line Disconnected. To leave a message –"_

_ ##_

_There are no daffodils, violets, nor hyacinths _

_How can you speak to the dead?_

_The dead know only the language of the flowers_

_For that reason they are silent_

_They travel and are silent; _

_They endure and are silent_

_From the dreams of the public, _

_From the dreams of the public._

_If I start to sing, I will shout_

_And if I shout – _

_The agapanthuses command silence_

_Raising a small hand of an dark blue Arabian baby_

_Or even the footsteps of a goose in the air._

_It is heavy and difficult; _

_The living are not enough for me _

_Firstly because they do not speak, and after that_

_Because I have to ask the dead,_

_To be able to move on._

_Otherwise it is impossible, as soon as sleep conquers me,_

_For my companions to cut the silver cord_

_And for the flask of winds to empty._

_I fill it up again and it empties, _

_I fill it up again and it empties._

_I wake up_

_Like a goldfish swimming_

_Between the chasms of the lightning._

_And the wind and the cataclysm and the human bodies,_

_And the agapanthuses are stabbed like the arrows of fate_

_In the unquenched earth,_

_Shaken by spasmodic signs,_

_You would think they were loaded in an ancient cart_

_Tumbling along wrecked roads, on old_

_Cobblestones,_

_The agapanthuses, the asphodels of Negroes:_

_How shall I learn this religion? _

_How shall I learn this religion?_

_The first thing that God created was love_

_Afterwards the blood came_

_And the thirst for blood_

_Which is pulsated by_

_The seed of the body as the salt – _

_The first thing that God created is the long journey._

_That house waits_

_With a sky blue smoke_

_And a dog who has grown old_

_Waiting for the return to release his soul._

_But they must explain to me, the dead_

_It is the agapanthuses which keep them speechless,_

_Like the depths of the sea or the water in the glass?_

_And the companions stay in the palace of Circe;_

_My precious Elpinor! My poor, idiotic Elpinor!_

_Hey, don't you see them?_

_"Help us!"_

_At the all-black spine of the Fishermen._

_Transvaal, 14 January 1942 _

_Stratis Thalassinos among the agapanthus flowers_

_-George Seferis_

* * *

**Notes: **Poem by the Nobel winner greek poet Seferis. Translation by me. I butchered this masterpiece, but well.


	3. Cacodemonomania

**Notes:** Beta'd by firefly.1212. The illustrations are not mine! Credit to the Twin's Project. Can be found: /projects/a-z-of-unusual-words/

_**Cacodemonomania**_

Cacodemonomania  
[kak′ōdē′mənōmā′nē·ə]  
an abnormal mental condition in which the patient claims to be possessed by an evil spirit.

Ancient Greek:  
"κακός", evil  
"δαίμων", spirit  
"μανία", madness

* * *

They are all pedantic. The walls of the hospital seem strange under this new light. The neon flickers and the fleeting moments of darkness make the shadows tremble. The smell of disinfectant and iodine is familiar. She rests her head on the ironed, white pillow. It smells of cheap soap and plastic.

##

"She had a mild paranoia crisis."

"Are you sure about this diagnosis?"

"No. It is very hard to accurately diagnose patients, especially new ones, without history and previously manifested symptoms. Are you aware of any particularly stressful events in her life that may have triggered such a condition?"

"Yes. It is quite recent and… Shall we sit?"

"Yes, of course."

##

"I told you we would meet again? Didn't I? I didn't really believe you would let yourself slip so easily. I am a tad disappointed. What would he say? He would scoff and laugh. But you can reverse it. All of it. You know how. Just wake up and speak their language. You know how. You've done it all your life after all."

##

She opens her eyes hesitantly. Lestrade is sitting on a plastic uncomfortable chair with a paper cup of coffee in his hands. She is surprised to find John Watson leaning on the wall with closed eyes and a wrinkled forehead. Why is he here? Such loyalty is… unsettling. He had to tend to the wounded; after all, he is a doctor. She closes her eyes again.

##

"Molly?" A rough voice whispers.

"Molly?" A worried voice whispers.

She opens her eyes once again to see the faces of Lestrade and Sally.

"Wate-" she croaks.

"Of course, of course…" Greg hurries to fetch a glass of water from the little table besides her bed. He helps her drink.

"What happened?" she asks confused.

"We will have time for explanations later. Now the doctors advise you to rest," Sally says, a little too fast perhaps. A little too breathless.

"What happened?" she tries to sit, rising from the mattress, balancing on shaky hands. Her head is swimming, her eyes sting from the light. "What have they given me?" Her control almost slips and her voice does not sound wounded enough. Her face is not wrinkled to betray vulnerability anymore.

A flicker of uncertainty and bewilderment flashes in John's eyes. Lestrade's and Sally's still convey the same, expected, warm sentiment of protection. Of pity. She bows her head slightly and schools her features to be what they are expecting. A mixture of stubbornness and daze in her eyes, a small crease between her brows and her limbs pliant but tense, the slightest hint of trembling with the effort of regaining their control again. John's eyes soften.

"What have they given me?" Her voice sounds just right now. A little more forceful, a little more demanding.

"Molly, you should rest… It's nothing that won't be sorted out with a few hours of sleep. Then we can-"

Sally sounds and looks condescending. The fool.

"I am a doctor. I know I suffered some kind of a crisis, or… outburst. I think I have lost some time. I don't remember many things. So far, so obvious. I know I am getting pharmaceutical treatment for something, most probably tranquilisers to induce mild catatonia and relaxation of the muscles. It is possible to have administered me some anti-psychotics and mood stabilisers, but not very likely since they probably don't know what they are treating me for."

Lestrade almost gapes and Sally freezes in the process of leaning to fix Molly's pillow behind her back. John has cold unreachable eyes – as he always has after the _"death"_ of Sherlock – but his jaw tightens and his Adam's apple bobs strangely.

Molly almost smiles at him. He is not given enough credit, frankly. Not enough credit at all.

"You are right," a man's voice says unexpectedly.

Everyone turns to look at the door, where a medium height man with brown skin and black hair is standing, scribbling something on a chart.

"Doctor Molly Hooper, I am your supervising psychiatrist. My name is Clive Durham."

The man has taken few steps towards the narrow bed and he is extending his arm. Molly assesses him with a quick glance and after an imperceptible delay she extends her arm to entwine her fingers with the man's in a handshake.

"_Psychiatrist_, you say? Have you ruled out the possibility that the aetiology is pathological?"

The man doesn't look up from his chart. His voice is conversational.

"No, of course not. We are running some tests at the moment and we will need to run some more during the day. An MRI of your brain and neck is advisable."

"What are you looking for?"

"Any anomalies in the nerves synapses and the concentration of grey matter, mainly. Although the possibilities of your condition being entirely physical are nil."

"I see."

"Could I ask you some questions first?"

##

Molly is inside Lestrade's car. The inspector is sited on her right in front of the wheel, hands resting on his lap, palms down and fingers spread on his jeans. He takes a deep shaky breath and he starts the car.

"Are you going to be okay in your flat?"

Molly stares in front of her, as the car slides ungracefully to the dead asphalt. Her eyes are red under the brim and her hair is tangled and is falling from her loose bun.

"Doctor Durham gave me permission to leave, I've signed all the papers and I will follow his instructions. Although, I don't think that it will be necessary to-"

"That's not what I meant."

"I know."

The silence weighs down on both of them.

"I'll be fine. I'll call when I need something."

"Right."

##

It is snowing outside. She wears a flowery long sleeved blouse and a pink knitted jacket. She has a cup of Lapsang Souchoung tea. She smells fire and she tastes ash. That was his favourite tea. Jim's. _"It reminds me of him"_ he had said. _"Of his… destruction."_ He was right. He was awfully sentimental. That was what got him killed at the end. She had warned him. Maybe not passionately enough. Not _convincingly_ enough.

He was always balancing on a fine thread. He reveled in it. He smelled, touched and caressed the danger, the absurdity. He was an artist. At first she was attracted to his cyclothymic character, the way he danced instead of walking, the way he drew instead of writing. The way he sang instead of speaking. He didn't bend the reality he detested, he reshaped it. Always _the creator_.

But then she became aware of his flaws. The way his eyes lost their glimmer for only a second and became dead and vacant. The way he was wandering aimlessly dragging his feet with slumped shoulders. She detested him then. Because he was weak. And weakness is unforgivable.

She played her part well, though, and when she had to, she gave him a little push, smiling at him. And he fell off that fine thread.

##

She returns immediately to work. She is a little quieter now. A little more reserved. No one can blame her. Perhaps no one notices. She is good at blending in.

##

"You made it after all. You are so good. _Soooo good_. You are perfect. Better than he could ever be. Smarter than he could ever be. You speak their language better, don't you honey? You can have your teeth back. Your pearls. And your bloody lips. Oh… smile for me. That's it. You are that he could never have been."

She stands in from of the mirror. She is talking with a familiar voice, a voice she has heard before, _surely_.

"No. I am just the one who survived."

She smiles again and she admires the sharp ivory contrasting with the shiny crimson. And… did her hair lengthen a few inches since last night? They did. Yes they did. She might as well smell the iodine. She darts out her tongue and slowly, deliberately, licks the inside of her palm. Such a salty skin.

##

She always looks behind her shoulder now. Waiting to hear the splashes of water and a forgotten melody. An _"if"_ can be transformed very easily into a _"when"._

* * *

_**Notes:**___I am a sucker for reviews. Any kind of feedback would be deeply appreciated. Thanks for reading.


	4. Dactylion

_**Notes:**_Beta'd be Firefly.1212. Thanks!

_**Dactylion**_

Dactylion  
\dak-ˈtil-ē-ˌän\  
the tip of the middle finger

Ancient Greek:  
"δακτύλιος", the circumference of a circle, oval

* * *

It is morning. Molly is sited in her kitchen. Before her, there is a wooden kitchen table and a cup of coffee. Her fingertips lightly brush the cover of her notebook. She is tired of the siren. She crosses out the pages of her. Afraid to scratch and burn them. She picks up her pencil. She stares at the blank page. She drops the pencil.

#

It was easy at first. Right person, right place. Low profile. She was the shy bookworm at school. The introverted perfect daughter to her parents. The type of girl who would help a lady to cross the road. She stammered and blushed at the right times and at the right amount. She stood up for herself and fought in rare moments of heroic bravado and was always applauded. She, then, lowered her eyes again. It was all so frightfully easy.

Then it got complicated.

Jim was complicating. He attracted too much attention. Attention from all sorts of indiscreet aspiring criminal master minds. Or so, they praised themselves to be. Jim had a flare for the theatrical. It wasn't to her liking. She disapproved, naturally. He never obeyed. Oh, well….

He was easily tamed. Too much _wanting_ in him. Too much raw power. He was an interesting, little frail thing. He was bent, but never reshaped. He had an inheriting, overwhelming desire to be praised, which was often mistaken for narcissism. Oh, _no_. She realised it quite recently in their relationship. He cried in his sleep and he begged for unnamed demons to _"go away, please go away, please". _

But he was efficient and methodical. He could control an expanded network of all shorts. Enraged criminals, petty thieves, greedy bankers, vain politicians, army generals with a twisted sense of morality. Everyone bent to his will. He had that edge in his voice and such dead eyes that they had no other choice. He was captivating. She almost fell in love.

He had to die of course. He had to get out of the way, sooner or later. She had opted for later, but he was too reckless. Too provocative. She had no choice. She still felt a tinge of regret when she touched his cold blood. His eyes were still open. For a moment she thought they were more alive, now that resembled a reflection in glass. More life in death. A ridiculous notion. She must have adopted his sense for the histrionic.

His death was not as quiet as she would like. The press, Mycroft, Kitty Riley, Sherlock… They were all such a nuisance. She took care of all the technicalities. Mycroft was too far gone drowning in his guilt to notice. Kitty was taken care of with an anonymous bank deposit on her account and the source for the Vatican Scandal. Sherlock had an imaginary network to catch. Maybe not so imaginary, but three snipers hardly qualify as a network. All the others were dispersed, as soon as they learned about the death of their boss. Hardly any of them were persistent enough not to run away from a crumbling empire. They haven't even seen his face! Moriarty aspired fear, not loyalty. Never loyalty.

The first time they met, her and Jim, it was under conspicuous circumstances. There had been a number of fresh bodies at her mortuary; victims of a rather clean murder. Sherlock, with a rather admirable leap of logic, deduced that the cause of death was poisoning. The method of the administration of the poison was still unclear. He opted for a small lesion, undetectable to the naked eye. The trained eye of the pathologist though, was more than enough to spot a small needle mark, under the armpit; straight to the lymphoid system. Death was almost spontaneous. The drug was untraceable by any tests run by the toxicologists. It was a clean death. Too clean a death.

Then, Jim from the I.T. appeared. He was delivering the test results. His appearance was hardly uncommon or eccentric, his face and posture nothing remarkable. His manners though, his movements, were deliberate, restrained, _careful_. They weren't different from her movements. He smiled and his eyes sparkled. Then her gaze locked with his for only a moment, an inconceivable slip of her own stoic mask. She smiled back. It wasn't a timid smile. It was all teeth and edges; it reached her eyes and contorted her carefully schooled features. And Jim from the I.T. almost laughed, with a high-pitched, almost girly voice.

"I was looking for you," he said in a conversational manner, slipping back into his fake persona, but still not exactly. There was a mocking quality in his voice.

"I was never hidden," she replied.

He took two steps forward her.

"Hidden in plain sight. Textbook…" his voice got lower, darker. It changed quite dramatically. It seemed impossible to distinguish which words and mannerisms were his and which were part of _his great design_.

#

It should make her uncomfortable, but it didn't. Such similarities in their behavioural patterns should not aspire familiarity, but disconcert. Yet they didn't. She did not drawn in domesticity or become disillusioned by false tokens and declarations of mutual affection. Because these common tropes did not exist between them.

Sometimes, she would shiver when her fingers would ghost over a darkening bruise, or when her teeth would catch a bit of pale flesh and tugged just so, enough to mark. But it was never enough; how could it be?

Sometimes, he would smash porcelain and glass; he would fill the air with that delightful clamour chasing away the all encompassing silence. Silence was like a black hole. A singularity, an anomaly in the fabric of space and time, where none of the laws of physics applied. Her gravity was too strong; even light became darkness. What a dreadful way to be homogenized, to end. Everything into nothing.

That is the reason why, they never stayed silent, but only long enough for the intake of a breath. Just enough. They were bordering on a fine line. Between just enough and never enough.

Sometimes he was quiet. His mind never halted of course, you could see it in his eyes. But his immobilised body would give the illusion of a temporary respite. These days were dangerous. They were both riding high on adrenaline, tense muscles and a frantic beating heart; waiting.

#

The night of her 14th birthday, she was laid at her bed, eyes opened, feeling the cold breeze from the opened window. She got up, and bare skin touched the cold wood; feet dancing a predestined choreography to avoid the horrible creaking sound of the floor. In the safety of her bathroom, surrounded by white tiles and white porcelain, she carefully lit a candle and held her fingers to the flame.

"Who am I again?" a whisper was heard.

Then she got to her feet and tended to her burnt fingertips, treating them with cool water and bandages.

#

"_She was beautiful and elegant. She was naked; her body resembling a lady of a Renaissance painting. She had long, light and warm, brown hair that shaped soft waves and slack curls. She had eyes, the colour of chestnuts, and pink rosy cheeks. Her feet were resting at the pedal; her fingertips brushing lightly the white and black keys. Her skin looks soft and human, emanating warmth and breath. She turns to look at me._

'_I am not the past' she says, but her lips don't move._

'_I am the present. I am your present.'_

_Well, I would never argue, after all."_

Molly drops the pencil once more. She notices it is broken in two.

* * *

**_Notes: _**At the end of this chapter, the change of tense is intentional for obvious reasons. Also, she burns her fingertips to remove her prints, in case I was too obscure.


	5. Enantiodromia

**Notes:**Beta'd by firefly.1212. You are wonderful!

_**Enantiodromia**_

Enantiodromia  
a principle introduced by psychiatrist Carl Jung that the superabundance of any force inevitably produces its opposite

Ancient Greek:  
"ἐνάντιος", opposite  
"δρόμος", running course, road

* * *

Amidst the exhaustion, the pain and the demons, she died. Didn't she? She must be dead. Dead for quite a while now. That's it. The faceless masks are not alive either. Or are they?

The man in the apartment facing hers at the other side of the road is old. His apartment doesn't have curtains. She can see him when he wakes up every morning. His wife is dead. He drinks coffee – not tea – sitting at his large armchair, his profile outlined by the shadows and the sun. He is nothing but a black outline. She thinks if she stretches her arm, _just so_, she will touch him, and she will meddle with the black thin line and he will turn to dust and smoke. She doesn't lift her arm.

##

She has a plan.

##

"Hello John!"

The tired man opens the door with a neutral expression.

"Hello Molly, how nice to see you here, come on in." He smiles; jaw tight as he opens the door widely.

"Thank you. Sorry for arriving at such a short notice. If I am being a bother I should probably…"

"No, not a bother at all! Please come on in, I'll fetch us some tea." His smile is a bit wider now. His jaw is still clenched.

"Oh, thank you." Molly steps inside the apartment and she stands awkwardly in the middle of the living room as John disappears to the kitchen.

She turns her back to face the large windows; the doctor can't see her face. Her eyes dart all over the room, taking in all the details, cataloguing and searching. A skull on the mantelpiece, a dagger, a violin resting on an armchair, a Botanology book open at –

"Well, here we are. Usually Mrs. Hudson does the honours, but her hip is acting up and she can't climb the stairs, poor thing" John grimaces as he lets the porcelain tray on the table.

"Sugar? Milk?" he offers as he sits on one of the armchairs, patting his leg and rubbing circles at the knotted muscle.

"Thank you," Molly says and looks at the unoccupied armchair.

"Oh, just hand it over!" John says after he sees Molly's indecision.

She picks up the violin from the seat and delicately she lets it rest in the doctor's opened hands. He lowers it gently onto his lap. Molly smiles sympathetically.

"Well, I…," she starts, but the older man is looking intensely at the piece of wood, his head lowered, his palms a hair's breadth from touching the instrument. They stay there, levitated for a moment, completely still. She suppresses a smile.

"John, you should try to… at least-" Her voice is comforting, a low hum, soft.

He grabs it carefully and places it at the floor. "I know," he says. His eyes are stern. He clears his throat.

"So, what were you meaning to tell me? You sounded excited on the phone." He ships his tea.

"Well, remember when you said you were looking for a job, something challenging to pick you up again? Have you found anything?" She looks at him with glimmering eyes, a small smile almost playing at her lips.

"No, nothing of the sort." He shifts at the chair. Molly's smile is more prominent now.

"I had a chat at St. Bart's and there is a place available. A place in the E.R. I thought you would like to work from such a post, since it is pretty close to combat casualty care and you're accustomed to such conditions. Also, it's definitely challenging! You will have to start as an assistant of course, but you can certainly evolve!"

She stops talking, looking for a reaction. "What do you think?"

He stays silent. The dust is hovering over them, floating. She watches as the particles twirl and fall. She thinks time doesn't pass anymore.

##

John comes to the interview. He is overqualified. He takes the job. He looks good in white.

##

_"They hang out during lunch. Not because they enjoy each other's company, but for convenience's sake. John makes no effort to start new relationships, or even conversations. He is not depressed, just resigned. Oddly apathetic. Molly is the awkward pathologist. They fit somehow; like compatible puzzle pieces. Both are worn out, tired of life and neither of them thinks that is a bad thing."_

Did you like the story? Of course you did. That was the point. That was the interlude; would you like to hear the melody?

##

"Do you have any spare change? I only have a twenty pound note and I _need_ a coffee." John approaches her as she is sitting at a plastic chair at the hospital's cafeteria.

"Yes of course," Molly searches her bag and hands him three pounds. Her fingertips brush the doctor's hand. He barely seems to notice. He nods in gratitude and he limps to the line for his coffee.

His posture is stern, his face unreadable. He has an intimate tremor at his left hand, a psychosomatic limp that renders his leg useless, and a blank gaze. But only if you are stupid enough not to notice his eyes darting and calculating, not to feel the power of his hands, the way his shoulders tighten and his spine straightens when he feels danger. When he unconsciously makes a leap of logic, or of faith. You must be stupid not to see how he looks at Molly when she turns her back on him.

He is waiting for something, judging and waiting. Like a predator lurking before an attack. He is not stupid. He is not normal. And he is definitely not naïve enough not to see Molly's hands, they way they move, they way they are marked with bloody crescents from her digging fingernails. He leans closer to listen to her sweet breath, to breathe her vigilance, to smell her fear. Because he would recognise the haunted look, the tight face, the steadiness of her strides anywhere. It is the bearing of a soldier who is prepared to die in the battlefield, but will make sure everyone else has been killed before him.

So, John Watson – good, old, patient John Watson – waits in the line for his coffee, smiles at her and raises his left arm just a bit to wipe away a bead of sweat from his forehead. Slowly enough to be considered a normal gesture, quickly enough to be observed only by her ever watching eyes. Slowly enough to let her see his trembling fingers, quickly enough to curl his fist in a ball, as if suddenly becoming self conscious.

Two can play this game, he thinks.

"Thank you for the change," he says instead.

##

'You are mistaken. You are stupid. You have not been paying attention, and for this you will get punished. _'What have I missed?'_ you ask. Well, if you have to ask then you don't deserve to know. Perhaps, you haven't. Maybe you will come back with a reverent plan. With a flick of your wrist you can annihilate them. They are all just words in the end. Just stories. Pick up your pencil."

"Now, I learnt a new melody. Would you like to hear it? No? Pity."

##

John Watson is sitting in his large armchair. He plucks the violin string with his fingers, emanating disjointed sounds. He steeples his hands beneath his jaw, in a familiar position.

He has a plan.


	6. Fanfaronade

Fanfaronade

There is always a bird that flies alone. There is always one who will get away from the flock, from the perfect symmetrical triangles that geese form, or from the circular chaotic movements of shearwaters and petrels, hovering and plunging at the surface of the sea. Their long, narrow wings dip into the salty water and their tube shaped nostrils inhale the iodine and the cold marine air. They land and breed in colonies, nesting in burrows or cliffs.

They have small claws and large eyes. Gannets, storm-petrels, cormorants.

The storm-petrels are the smallest of seabirds; efficient, deadly. Dark plumage, long bills, thin, sharply hooked. They are always at the eye of the storm, cawing and flapping; twirling; slim, light, feathered bodies, caught by the wind and whipped by the water.

And yet they live another day, another night. They feed their offsprings; they seek shelter on the edge of the cliffs. They drink sea water that burns their throats and eat small slippery fish with prickly scales that scratch their crows. And yet the seagulls have the sweetest of cries.

##

John hasn't slept in the last few days. He doesn't need rest. He doesn't need the respite that sweet slumber offers.

John hasn't eaten in the last few days. He doesn't need food. He doesn't need to sacrifice the clarity of his mind for the fullness of his stomach and the welcomed haze that makes everything blur into uncertain lines.

John hasn't ventured out of his flat in days. He called ill to his work. It isn't entirely a lie. He is ill. His stomach cramps into knots. It is high time to put an end to all these alluring delusions that occupied his mind – that dictated his mind.

First of all, Sherlock is dead.

He had accepted it quickly. He hadn't even gone through all the stages of grief. There was no denial, only negotiation. The day after his burial, he woke up and he stared at the wall. When he got up from his bed, his head was clear and his thoughts evanescent. Sherlock was dead.

Secondly. Molly had something to do with his death.

As to the extend of her involvement, he could not tell. He had entertained the thought that she killed him, that she propelled Moriarty's actions. Perhaps she was his sidekick all along. Perhaps they pulled that stand together.

He flexes his fingers. His toes dip into the carpet.

Thirdly, she knows – or suspects – that he knows.

That's why she found him the job. So far, so simple. She is too obvious. She is too obvious by being too subtle. There is a veil that swathes around her, a carefully worn curtain that distorts her. Sherlock had used an expression once for one of his eluding suspects. He had said _"John, he is clever. No one knew, because they all knew. No one suspected, because it was all so simple to stage. He was like an object baptised in water. You can see the object's form, but distorted; a different angle underwater. You can't see what it really is, just an approximation. You can only guess. But what do you guess? Horses, not zebras. And then, there is the only time you have to think of zebras."_

Fourthly, there is a grave possibility that he is paranoid.

He sees a criminal mastermind in the face of sweet Molly. He makes parallels with the words of a dead man. He closes his eyes, and he is blinded by the Middle Asian sun, drawn in by the moist air, whipped by the wind and the biting sand. His eyes narrow and water and his legs are heavy. With every step, he is secured more tightly by the ground, the sand reaching his knees. Then the white noise in his ears stops, the wind ceases its howling, and the only sound he can hear is the hollow thud of blood rushing though his veins. And he walks. And he walks. And he walks.

He is fine. Never had been better. And now he is going to the battlefield. Again. How he'd missed it!

##

She awakes to the sweet melody of a piano and a rich warm laugh that creeps into her ears with the sound resonating down her spine. She stops watching the old man sitting in the heavy armchair. She doesn't lift her arm to meddle with the fabric of space and dimensions, mostly because she is afraid there will be no effect whatsoever.

What a dreadful way to exist: to make no change; to be invisible by being invincible. There is no challenge; the bar is set aguishly low. But right now things are picking up again.

Watson is predictable. Almost too predictable to be real. He hides himself almost as effectively and masterfully as her. His tremor has come back. Funny thing though, that is predictable. That was predictable. When she doesn't look, he doesn't tremble. When she doesn't look his jaw isn't tense and his eyes are not dazed. They are sharp, cold.

First of all, Sherlock is dead.

The public is convinced. Although he was not. It wasn't denial. It was stupid bloody sentiment, hope. But the change is evident. He doesn't hope any more. He hasn't stop feeling though, which is his biggest mistake. So, she should hinder the acceptance of his rather late realisation.

Secondly, John is observant.

He can't know; that would be absurd. But he must suspect. Or at least doubt, if his lingering looks and the crease on his forehead are any indication. He is hiding something. He is hiding his real thoughts; that she can tell with certainty. She has to find out what these thoughts consist of, to take them apart. And then of course, rebuild them in her own image. Or rather, in the image she has created of herself.

Thirdly, she has to be more careful.

Her approach has been too direct thus far. Keeping him close and finding him a place in the hospital could all become a disadvantage for her. Instead of controlling him, he seems to control her. He analyses, his hands steeple when he thinks. _Like he did_. Curious thing… Is it an unconscious effort to bring him back, to connect with a dead man? Or is it an imitation? John thinks. John sees and John observes. He can turn the tables on her. In fact, he has already made the first move. He has planted the seed of doubt in her head. He has made her lose her confidence, falter in her step. She needs to think.

Fourthly, she can't fool him. Not like the others.

She has to tackle the problem differently. Find a new strategy. He has formed some stable, rigid thoughts about her person and any effort of appearing different would strengthen his beliefs. She needs to baffle him, to plant the same seed of doubt in his mind. Alternatively, she has to make him mistrust his mind or his premonitions. The only way to do this is to defy the constant of his life. To burn his structured shell into ashes.

_Sherlock. Come play with the living._

_##_

"You know you talk a lot. Too much for someone who died that long ago. Well done you. You pass well for alive. It' not acting any more, is it? You believed it. You believed it in the end – that you are one of them. You are not.

You.

Are.

Not."

Her soft hair form scales for me to climb, yet the harpsichord is mute.


	7. Gorgonise

**Notes**: The story's mentions of Lhasa are compatible with the Canon's version of the travelling Sherlock. According to Doyle and Nick Rennison's analysis, Sherlock travelled to Lhasa, Shangri-La, and the Alps among other places. The "American" is a salute to Nick Rennison's claims, that the man collaborated with Sherlock in experiments, which lead to the discovery of the fingertips analysis

The illustrations are not mine. The artists' page is: /projects/a-z-of-unusual-words/

Beta'd by wonderful firefly.1212

_**Gorgonise**_

Gorgonise  
[gawr-guh-nahyz]  
to affect as a Gorgon; hypnotize; petrify.

Ancient Greek:  
"γοργόνα", mermaid, siren

* * *

The manor is empty. Anthea is dismissed. Only the butler remains at his post. The corridors are dark. They always are. The fire trickles and an orange light illuminates the room. The corners of the tall walls project lanky shadows across the ceiling. The smell of books is heavy on the air. His lips linger on the brim of the cold glass. The alcohol is bitter on his tongue. His head rests on the velvet back of the large armchair.

Complicated. It's complicated, he thinks.

He sighs and his head lolls back, eyes closed. Exhaustion creeps in and the ruby liquid pours on the Persian carpet. Numb fingers clutch the slippery crystal gracelessly. A hollow sound resonates down the spine of the building, as the glass kisses the stone.

##

The sky is grey. A white light baptises everything into a homogenous white noise. White noise. Cars, horns, someone whistling, someone crying, someone singing out of tune. And then a phone rings. Everything and everyone is caught in a twirling manic tornado, an onslaught. Paces and light. Feet; fleetingly touching the ground. Running. Flying. A frantic turn of the head to watch, to glance spasmodically. Eyes narrowing; too strong a wind. Too cold a day.

Then, a lake – or the sea. Out of reach. A boat, a pirate's lair. An anchor, down, down, down to the bottom of the sea. Down, to the blue and green seaweeds. Down to the muddy bottom. Down, down, down. Water, silence; noise disappears into the endless azure. Darkness tugs at his sleeve. The sunbeams are faint; mocking from above. Solace.

Come, now. Can you find me?

He smiles. An opened mouth, swallowing salt, tasting sand. Velvet abyss.

Come. Can you find me?

##

Nepal is restless at this time of the year. The nomads are set to the eternal cycle of the holy mountain. Once again, travelling miles, dragging bleeding feet to ice and sharp rock. Chanting ancient melodies, whistling to herds of yaks to follow, riding on horses. Knitting black cloaks and drinking grey milk.

The children play on the slippery slides with the wild goats, competing at climbing, running, jumping. Mothers cry out, voices echo like bells over the howling wind. Dinner is ready; one mouthful each, served on a pot of clay. Thenthuk and butter tea. Then off to scream at the mountains, fight for freedom at the battlefield of Talas again. Struggle, get wounded; kill. Wooden swords and armour covered in mire clatter and vie in might with the roar of the snow lion.

##

The stairs of Baker Street have long been unclimbed. Most of the nights, limbs fail him and there is no handrail to the wall. He refuses to attach one. There is no need. He hasn't slept in a bed for months. The sofa and a blanket is a better alternative. The radio is always playing. On the lowest of volumes at nights, a soft murmur with intervals of clarinets and strings. In the mornings and afternoons, the volume is at its highest. Passersby could dance to a medieval quadrille , or ponder on the Freudian theory of the uncanny – or even listen to a repeat of the Archers.

This night is no exception. He lies on his back, feet hanging from the short sofa, arm draped over his forehead. A man defends the actions of Don Carlos, and a woman explains an incest triangle of royal blood, a betrayal and a lost crown. Well, it seems fitting. It is complicated in its absurdity, he thinks. Then the door creeps open, and a strand of brown hair is pulled away from almond eyes. He sits up. His mouth is closed shut, the lips are parted for the tiniest intake of breath; eyelids don't flatter.

Immobility of time and conscience. Everything floats in the midair between.

##

A new day begins and Lhasa is shimmering at the top of the clouds. Golden leaves and mist hides the treasure of the mountain from the unwanted visitors, from the malevolent eye. Until he climbs the thousand stairs and rests his head at the big old tree at the end of the road. A woman kneels at his feet and presents him with a white silk scarf. He kneels and kisses her on the forehead. His hands are too dirty and the silk is too white. She covers his bare neck and smiles. "Khata" she says. He smiles back.

##

"I, the snow lioness who stays in snowy solitudes,

Have milk which is like the essential nectar. In the absence of golden cups,

I would not pour it in an ordinary vessel."

##

The train to Lhasa is packed with people; they are pouring out of the windows, hanging at the panes, out of the rails and riding on top of the old machine. It smells of heat and curry, of brown skin and white linen.

The wagon is old; the train blows puffs of black smoke into the blue sky. The seats are dirty, the fabric worn out and scratched, revealing the metal skeleton of the structure. A chicken goes astray of his owner; it pokes him and squawks. A few Arabian words – a symphony of thick, rich sounds – and a dozens of feathers later and the chicken's neck is broken. Its tongue hangs out of the vulgar yellow beak.

Someone speaks broken Indian and wears khaki shorts. He fumbles with the layers of clothing and a zipper of a large bag, finding a pen and a paper. The train stops for the fourteenth time. People start pushing and shoving each other, the crowd moves at its slow rhythm and the man sits opposite to him, sighing and stretching his legs.

The stranger picks up a notebook. Black leather, expensive parker pen. Surely a western, probably American. He smells of antiseptic and of mosquito repellent. He sighs and wipes his forehead. His fingers twitch, searching. He has restless eyes. He sees the lean man in a white dhoti and a matching kurta, who has too pale eyes and skin to pass for a local. Too slender fingers and unmarked skin to be working under the hot sun on the fields; cutting his hands on thorny bushes, creamy skin on brown clay, silky hair covered by dust and renaissance curls tangled by the wind.

"Do you have fire?"He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees.

"Yes, of course." The other man replies, smiling, pressing his lips in a tight line. Why does he smile? "American?" He asks, looking genuinely curious.

"Is it that obvious?" The man's teeth flash, unnaturally white on this tanned skin.

"The accent is a giveaway."

"And I suppose … British?" He brings the cigarette to his lips.

There is the red small fire that dances between his teeth and the vast black water of Manasarovar. There is a heavy bag full of fake green papers and the seeds of a flower. There is a girl who coughs blood and has a rich laughter. There is an old man with the burden of the Atlas on his shoulders, and a young mother, sister and daughter.

There is a lean white man, wearing a white robe and a golden braid curling his wrist. That man has raven hair and the happiest of smiles, and the sweetest of pain. And when he reaches to take the American's hand, enveloping it in a gesture of acquaintance and acceptance, the sun is dim and the lake is enraged.

And the delicate fingers uncurl and the eyes look down on earth and the engine screams at the air, whistling and howling at the antagonising wind.

"Come and find me," he whispers. "Or one day, I will find you."

Now off to a strange monastery and a lonely tree. Off to the endless railways and the heated wagons. The strange, smiling gods and the golden statues. And off to the only road you can take; forward.

##

"Do you understand?"

"No."

"Will you try?"

"No."

##

Silence claimed me again. Absolute. Irreversible. Is it real? Can it be?

He is sleeping. Breathing. Running. Speaking.

And I am falling. Falling. Falling.

He is sleeping.

##

Molly muffles her roaring laughter on her embroidered pillow. She kicks her legs frantically and tears trickle down her throat. She catches her breath at last and lies on grey sheets, sweaty.

"Does he live?"

"Who is asking?"

"The sister of Alexander."

"Who?"

"My brother. Is Alexander the king alive?"

"Who are you?"

"I am the Victory of the Thessaly."

"Thessalonike. He lives and reigns, and conquers the world."

* * *

_**Notes:**_ The conversation in the end, that Molly imagines, is inspired by the legend of the Thessalonike, the sister of Alexander the Great. She was a mermaid, a vicious creature. The myth has it, that she was asking every sailing ship she stumbled upon, if her brother was alive. He wasn't, but if the sailors attempted at telling her the truth, she was sinking their ships and killed them all. The only correct answer was "He lives and reigns, and conquers the world."

The relation with the title might to be obvious in this chapter to non Greek speakers. Mermaid is a synonym for "gorgona" in the Greek language. The "gorgones" were the equivalent of sirens, and the ensnared the sailors with their singing. Their alterior motive of course, was to eat them. Hence the term "gorgonise" came to mean "to ensnare, to petrify, to stupify" in the English language too.


End file.
